


John

by winkola



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:50:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winkola/pseuds/winkola
Summary: Sherlock can't say his name anymore.





	John

Sherlock can't say his name anymore.

Sherlock lays on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. He's sat here long enough for dust to settle on the instrument lying on the table across from him. The strings are broken. He broke them on the first night and now he can't look at it anymore. He could get up and put away the glass of milk that Mrs. Hudson put on the table for him last night. Or was it two? three? nights ago? When it's like this Sherlock doesn't exist in time anymore.

Logical, he knows -he has to snort here because he always knows things logical- that's what got him into this mess. He knows that if he doesn't move that glass, the milk will go bad. It will curdle, then stink, and then the smell will spread like a disease, suffusing the whole flat in the smell.

Sherlock has learned it better than anyone that lack of action will not stop the world from turning. Even if he does not move the milk will continue to age. Even if he does not rise, the rest of the world will.

When He was taken away- removed- Sherlock felt it like a missing limb. It was just another chase. Sherlock had ran ahead, not looking back because he didn't need to. He would always be there behind him. That truth is a source of agony now because it was because of that- He always being behind Sherlock- that is why Sherlock is here and He is not. Lead is lost in the flesh and red comes to meet Sherlock. It soaks through now and Sherlock clenches his fist into the cushioning.

The echo of Mary's fist on him have faded but he wants them back. He deserves worse. Lestrade had pulled her off while the other guest watched, dressed in their black. He could hate Lestrade for that. Lestrade had looked at him with pity. He hates him even more for that. He deserves worse.

Now, without Him, those days are back. Sherlock sits in his own mind where only facts exist buzzing around endlessly. There are mundane things in there too, like bills- they need to be paid, your body- you have to wash sometime, Sherlock, eating- _Sherlock, eat something!_

He wants to scream!

Because suddenly he now realizes that those mundane things now have a voice and it's His.

He huddles in, turning into the couch trying to hide his face- to run from it. It cannot be born- not yet, but it's coming anyway. A pained croak rises from Sherlock's lips and, like the last, final devastating blow, it cracks him,

"John".


End file.
